


These Wounds of You

by Airmid



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Chuck Shurley's A+ Parenting, F/M, Fallen Angels, Female Lucifer (Supernatural), Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-09 15:33:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11107521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airmid/pseuds/Airmid
Summary: Somethings he would have rather not have had. Lucifer without memory was one of them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> While the time is nebulous it becomes clearer later on just when events are happening.

There weren't any notes, etchings in the dirt, even a small goodbye pat, and Michael was at a loss of what to do. She willingly came with him, holding his hand and walking beside him, eyes wide and staring at everything, and he was waiting for whatever it was holding her back to just break open under the pressure that was her. Everything to be torn and sundered until it was raw, twisted and just unhealable, as it had lain for so long.

"I only remember that I love you," she had said, touching his face with her hand, features pushed and fearful, yet there was a lost adoration mixed with the two. "And that my name is Luci."

So they walked, through fields and worn roads. Feet ached and shoes muck covered, but he hoped for a city. One was promised, at least some small settlement, by reading names on a sign they encountered, promising such a thing in so many miles. Ten miles felt forever when all one had was attached to them, stripped of wings and just a thought.

She never questioned why they didn't stop at the handful of houses along the way. Never guessed at his own terrible paranoia, or lack of being able to tell which was good and which might harbor ill, especially towards her. She was so small, long blonde hair and pale blue eyes, thin frame, and she smiled up at him as though he was the morning, the joy in her face reflecting that.

There were things in his pockets, things humans used. At least that much had been given by whoever had done this. Years ago he would have sworn only Father, now he was unsure given where they had been, what had happened.

She did not let go.

 

* * *

 

 

"Slower," he told her, watching her want to eat as though she had never done so, and indeed he wondered if she had. All these eons tended to blend together like this, and it had been a rarity if he had ever put something into a borrowed mouth when on earth. Perhaps back when all this was created, when humans were not so lost she had, like him, tried those things seen from a far. Things the animals and living creatures used to sustain themselves.

Now, she ate as if she never had, but had longed for it past the point of reason. He took a napkin, wiping a small smear at the corner of her mouth and she smiled at him again.

"Not all of us are control freaks like you," she whined around the mirth before doing what she wanted anyways, but slower. She was always so frustrating, but she did listen despite her stubbornness. At least, in the beginning before other things set in, and turned her to stone.

Soon, they would have to find somewhere to sleep even though she had not questioned why they told no one that they had woken up in a strange place. Or why she could remember so little. A dark part of him wondered if this was merely trauma, that after rest she would know exactly who she was, and proceed to sink her blade into him. Not that it meant much to him anymore, they with no grace and soul that would just disappear in the wind.

Sticky fingers on his own free hand, firm and tight, and he bowed his head.

"Eat," she said quietly. "Worry doesn't feed you."

 

* * *

 

 

A bus had been there, one that promised a larger city, and he had put them on it, something perhaps they could get lost in. It was substantially bigger, ones with many roads and blocks stretching far and wide, and he knew soon they would need sleep. Then clothes, more food, things he could not provide for long.

 _I don't know what to do, Father,_ he had thought, staring up at the sky beside where they had gotten off, Lucifer pressed against him due to the sharp wind.

So he had found a place, something that he would consider run down, but enough that they could sleep and wash. She would be safe here while he found food for her and decided what next to do. The way she had looked at him when he had gone out, as though she believed he would leave, and knowing there was so little to reassure her except to make sure he returned.

Now it was near twilight, everything ached in ways he had not experienced, pulled and burning, and he wanted to curl up and rest when that had never been necessary. He was eternal, he had many faces long ago, many eyes to see the vastness of the universe, but he had had no need to close even one set unless he chose to. Now was different, only two eyes, only this body, and a thin trail of what was left of himself trapped inside until this gave out.

"Michael." A voice, firm but not loud, and he tried not to react as he looked over, something standing there from a past that felt as distant from as the start of creation.

"You're dead," he said, and was surprised by the slight upturn of the mouth there. No malice, a wariness, but there was no hint that his little brother would bring forth a blade and plunge it through his chest.

Why he was afraid of dying now, after what he had become, he could not name.

"I was. I got better."

"I see."

Carefully, he came closer to his little brother who did not move away, simply stood on the side of a playground he had been passing. Screams of happy children and scolding of parents wishing to take them home were all around, people bundled up and hustling by without even a glance.

"And Lucifer?"

"She doesn't remember anything, little brother," Michael said, that urgency to protect her growing. "She's not, she's not like what you think. More like she was when Father first formed her."

A slight movement, something of assent, and Castiel still had no warning that he was planning violence towards them. Nothing that spoke to run, as though he still possessed the means to outrun even the smallest of his brothers.

"Both of you are like this?"

"Yes."

The world was still moving around them as his brother seemed to contemplate his options. Now he could understand why humans complained of them, so unearthly still, unblinking as though they were machines, and perhaps that's how they had been created. The first machines, the automation of heaven, the first step for Father to walk away if that had become necessity.

"How did you find me?" he finally asked, unsure to interrupt his brother's thought process, but it was growing darker and colder. He knew she would be worried if he failed to return soon enough.

"I felt as though I needed to be here," Castiel said and Michael wanted to laugh at the sky. His little brother had been paged with no explanation, as they had awoken without one. "I will not inform anyone, including heaven, of this."

The words _for right now_ were unspoken, but heard all the same.

"Thank you."

"Is there anything that you are in need of?"

"Money, clothes, food, shelter, work," Michael rattled off the list that had been consuming his mind ever since they walked into that first town. That pressing need to take care of both of them without any means or understanding of how to do so. He laughed at his foolishness.

"I will see what I can do."

With that he was alone and he hurried on, finding a place that sold something passing for a sandwich and soup to bring to her. The walk home had no lingering memories of the past, no angry siblings waiting to maim or burn him, and he slipped back into their room.

She was asleep, shoes off, but the rest of her clothing on despite the dust on her and them, curled on top of the covers.

"Luci," he said quietly, wondering when his own shock would be over and things changed. "Food."

Those eyes opened, still not knowing but knowing only him and she smiled.

 

* * *

 

 

Castiel had done something, found them things, and Michael was uncertain if he wished the details of them. All that was important was they had an address, a point to which they belonged, and did not owe money towards for a little while. Food, clothes, heat, furniture, all of it theirs, yet he was torn between elation and nothing over it all.

He kept waiting for her to remember, to see the hate go into her eyes as she lunged at him.

There was a place a few blocks down that was hiring a stocker and, since he was strong, he had gone and was hired. It was long hours, lifting and moving things around, reshuffling them on shelves for some arbitrary system, but it was easy. It caused his bones to ache, everything to feel tired and worn, and what seemed as a permanent thin glove of dirt to etch itself into his hands.

She was happy, though.

When he worked she stayed home, which he preferred right now as he still feared assassins, enterprising demons or just the odd tragedy, but never told her of such. She cleaned, which he had raised an eyebrow at, and read books and watched TV. She learned to cook through that picture box, and now he always returned to the smells of dinner and her joyous to see him.

She should not be kept up like a secret jewel, he scolded himself each day when she wrapped her arms around him. It was unfair, even if unspoken, that she stay here while he went into world.

Tonight, he came home early knowing she was just getting over a cold, some small virus that somehow she had gotten, more than likely from him. She had just started pulling the pots out to make dinner when he came in, her surprised face as he pulled her close.

"Let me take you out tonight."

So many things about her, how she moved with grace, head high and eyes bright, as they took in everything on their walk down the sidewalk. The very fact that they may not see more than this small area of one large city yet she would find things not seen before.

"Oh, they're blooming, Michael. Aren't they beautiful, tiny white bells all pressed together?"

He stared at the clutter of flowers that stood out as fresh snow against her palm and he nodded, touching her hair.

"You should go out more," he said, not wanting it, but knowing it was wrong to trap her forever. "You do not need to stay in all the time."

"Tomorrow," she said, smiling up at him rising to her feet. "Where are we eating?"

 

* * *

 

 

They always slept in the same bed and he always awoke before her. This had been yet another unquestioning fact for Lucifer, and Michael pressed his face into her shoulder as they laid in the darkness. A few more minutes and the alarm would go off, blaring to the outside world that this was time, that he at least had to get up. She appreciated coffee in bed and he felt it ironic that one named Morning Star would have such an aversion to mornings.

So now, he pressed his face into the cloth of her thin shirt, his mouth against the exposed areas of skin that her shirt collar skirted, and breathed her in. Some days he was terrified that she would be gone when he got back, lost forever, taken. After of eons of wanting to hurt her, destroy her, and here she was beneath his hands and what he wanted was to never leave.

"Michael?" Her voice was sleep laced, drawn from where he had awakened her just enough from his touches. Perhaps she did not like them and he stilled.

A breath, the idea that he should get up, before she pressed back against him, nestling herself closer as she always did. For so many ageless moments before everything collapsed she had always wanted closer. So he obliged, pulling her against him, her fingers finding his and he relished her like this until the clock informed him he must get up.

 

* * *

 

 

There were days like this, and if it must happen on a day he did not work then he was glad she was going out. Somehow he kept himself composed as she kissed him on the cheek, promising to be back in a few hours. Sun still young in the sky as she left and he closed the door, before going to a high cabinet in the kitchen. There he kept whiskey, some cheap off label that he loathed but it did it.

Some days he had to loose himself or he would break everything around him.

"Why, why would You do this?" he asked the empty room as though it would answer, as if Father might speak to him from the knife drawer. A shattered little sound came from him as he leaned against the counter. "You could have killed us outright instead of having us fade and then just vanishing."

Nothing. There was never any reasoning and he had gotten to the point of wanting to burn the whole earth down if it meant Father would just answer that one question.

"You could have done this before," he hissed, the infernal clock ticking away, clicking of the appliances and he wanted to smash them. Tear them apart until it truly was quiet, as if that would bring comfort. "You made me put her in that place. You made me do it for you and then you abandoned me. To this, Father."

A loud pop as his glass broke against the far wall and it sent satisfaction through him. There were plates in the sink, in the cupboards, and he enjoyed the sounds they made, feeling each judgement on him falling free as they shattered. Each cruel word from her mouth long ago, each second of fear that she would wake up.

"She doesn't even have a past. How does she talk to anyone because all anyone wants to know is where I'm from, what I've been not what is happening now," he told the wall with its mournful porcelain shards collected at its base. "We can't be just wiped out like that, we can't - "

He cut himself off as he slide down a collection of cabinets, suddenly exhausted and miserable and just without hope. There was nothing left and they could be eradicated, wiped clean off the slate, for they meant as much as ants did to humans. A nuisance tolerated, but stomped on if it forgot its place.

"Michael?"

Her voice was faded, something cautious and he shook his head, the one still leaning up against the cabinets in his wasteland kitchen. It could have been hours, or seconds since he stopped, he didn't know. Only that he was tired, that this was comfortable and that light was too harsh.

Shards of pottery crunched under her shoes as she drew closer, and he felt her close, as she called his name again. He still shook his head and she was crouched beside him, a whisper away. but not touching.

"Are, are you upset with me?"

That sound in her voice, something so old before she did things just to hurt him and he could barely stand it. "No love, not at you."

That was the truth after all. This Lucifer had done nothing wrong. They had little fights, tiny infractions from being together but she, as she was now, had done nothing to him.

"Something that happened a long time ago," he offered, trying to get his eyes open because she was quiet and he knew watching him without knowing what to do. "I'll get it clean -"

Her being beside him on the floor cut him off, arm wrapped around his waist as she pulled him against her and he let his eyes go all the way closed yet again. Here, in the shambles of their kitchen she was holding him and he let her, let his head drop to her shoulder as she didn't say a word.

 

* * *

 

 

Sometimes she watched him.

It had started after the kitchen incident and he worried that she felt she had to appease him. As though she might set him off though he had never raised his voice to her, let alone his hand. There seemed to be some part of her that feared him, programmed and set and she was worried.

The day had been humid, even with the cooling vents in their apartment just being in the hallway made his clothes stick to him. Finally the sun was setting as she grabbed his wrist, something almost child like in her features.

"Michael, let's go."

"Go?" he was asking as she pulled him towards the door.

"You'll see."

He decided not to press, letting her lead him through the door and out into the stark heat of the fading day. Air was damp and sticky, pungent with the scents of the city as she lead them through a maze of side streets towards where he knew a large park by a river was. The amount of people picked up as the night darkened, children running past that she simply side stepped, not minding at all. So many of them in the grass fields and she found a spot she liked, pulling him down so they could lean up against a tree, her insistence of how they must face a certain direction.

It was when he saw the rockets launch that he remember it was a holiday for this country. The loud explosions as colors sparked against the sky in patterns. Pulling her close despite the heat, he could see her head tilted back, watching it all.

"I love you," he whispered between the sets and he felt her attention fix to him. Had he never told her before, since they had woken in that field? "I always will."

Her eyes bright, reflecting the color of their fireworks as he ran his fingers through her sweat cooled hair. Her skin was hot and salty before she offered her mouth against his and he knew he wanted more.

So many things he wished he could change, the ache of what he was and lost he did not want on her.

"Always so serious," she murmured, before returning her attention to the sky. "Lighten up a little, we'll miss the finale."

 

* * *

 

 

It did not surprise him that she had found a volunteer position somewhere. She had always been more social than him, from the start of all till now. What did take him back was her choice. Apparently, in her current state she was fond of children so she went to read to the sick ones, those chained to a hospital for survival and he wondered if it was an echo in her. That it reminded her once of her love for all their little brothers who she used to sing to, be beautiful for them just as she was before corruption.

She chided him from time to time about not wanting to go out, though he would attend things with her if she asked. He had little want other than to be with her. Those he worked with respected him but had long ago stopped asking if he wished to get a drink, or do an activity that was not confined to his work hours.

"You'll become a hermit," she had joked on more than one occasion. "All locked up in that head of yours and then what will I do."

He didn't have the heart to tell her that that had already happened to him when he lost her the first time.

It was late afternoon and the trees where shifting colors when he heard her come home. His day had been short today, the benefits of working his way up to a better position with more pay and he went to greet her. There was something off in her face, some pain and touched her cheek.

"One of them died in the night. Sudden, just stopped breathing," she said quietly, her eyes down and he wondered what Lucifer years ago would have said to this emotion. She would have scoffed that she could ever mourn a human. "Michael, I need -"

He was pressed against the wall, her little body all pushed up close to him as she kissed him, something going father than they had as her hands trailed down his body. That want was there, the kind he felt and tried not to think of that was inherent of these bodies. Yet it went past that, the want to be united with her, as they had been.

But that unclean feeling persisted. She didn't know, she didn't remember anything and he couldn't do this to her as he gently separated himself from her, trying to think of what to say.

The devastation of this rejection was blatant, he had put another sword into her.

"What happened to us? Why can't I remember?" Her eyes almost had a frantic pull to them, wide and skating over him. "Why do you not want to touch me?"

There was nothing to bring forth, no phrases that would make her understand unless her mind supplied them, that tiny spark of her jumping fully to light and just knowing. He tried to reach out to her but was pushed away. Her furious little form marched into the bedroom, the door slamming him out as he leaned against the wall, wondering what he was supposed to do. He couldn't unmake the past, even fully powered it would fracture too much, risk time itself collapsing to undo the events of this.

He watched the day grow dimmer, evening setting in and wondered if he should find something for them to eat. There was always the want to care for her even if he had not learned the way she had to operate all their human methods. Things in cans where around what he could handle and he made the soup he found. It focused his mind to have something to do, his hands busy.

A tray with silverware, the soup, crackers she had a penchant for and he knocked on the door. There was no answer but it was unlocked.

She was there, curled up on her side of the bed, the room almost gloomy in darkness of twilight, her head stirring to see what he was doing.

"I thought you might be hungry," he offered, setting the tray down on the nightstand.

He swore she had been weeping but the limited light offered little clues.

"Would you," she started as he was halfway to the door, "not love me if I remembered?"

"I always loved you, will always," he said, firm because that never changed no matter how far she twisted in the knife.

"Then what?" She pushed herself up more, staring at him. "Did I do something?"

How could he tell her she betrayed everything, corrupted creation to match her own black form that had fallen from its glory? Even if she was a fallen archangel, she still didn't remember. If she could even begin to comprehend her crimes he couldn't push them onto her.

A slight nod of her head, as though his silence was affirmation and she was all the way upright, legs over the edge. "I can leave."

"No." The word was out and he was going back to her without thinking about it. "I don't want that."

"You can't," she took a breath, as though she shook and he sat beside her. "You can't even be with me, not fully because whatever happened." A wave of her hand, something almost disinterested. "I think it would be better."

"I don't want you to go."

Not again, he could not have her leave him yet again and her blind to what she was doing this time. It wasn't her fault now.

"You can't bear to touch me half the time."

"Luci," he said turning her face. "I worry that you would not agree to this if you knew. That what is between us would be radically different."

"Did I hate you?"

"Yes, but I know part of you loved me." That part, that part was still what was left when all the rest of her had been stripped away. "You are still you, just not all of you."

She was quiet as he traced the back of her hand with his fingertips. How badly he wanted to touch her more, give in to the urges of this flesh and be with her. To hear her sing for him, what little was left of her, and only for him as she had so long ago.

"Do you hate me?"

"Not anymore, only what you did."

"I feel like I have to have you, anything. Like everything just pounds inside, Michael, Michael, Michael."

_Because you were made from me for eternity, for us to be one. We were to be forever united and sing praise unto Father. I adored you, I will always adore you despite your treachery. When I put you in the dark I lost my sun._

"Do you feel it?" she asked, looking at him, hand curling into his shirt now. "Do you feel that pull that never leaves and just keeps going?"

"Yes."

Her hand slipped free of the cloth and took his, moving it to her, pressing it against her. "Please."

Some line in him broke, something he had sworn he would not cross as he consumed her mouth and she gave willingly. Her back arched, hand latched in his hair as he laid her down feeling like he had been dying for months just waiting for this. The way she opened her legs, gazed up with him with trust instead of avarice, begged him out of love instead of goading with hate and he took.

Everything she offered he took.

 

* * *

 

 

"I believe you are harder on yourself than even our Father would be."

"Is that so, little brother?"

Castiel seated himself on the bench beside him where he often came for lunch. It was quiet and he had no want of gossip or to answer questions. The humans, they did not bother him, only that he did not feel a kinship with them. They asked after his wife, how she was and he politely answered, knowing none would offer such kind words if they knew her name.

"You only blame yourself now."

"Have you come to lecture me, little Castiel? I will tell you I need no such thing."

"No, why bother chastising you when you do a finer job of it than anyone," the angel spat and Michael was amused the stalwart solider had become so cynical.

"What is it you want?"

There was something frustrated in the slight movements of his brother, as though Castiel was struggling with an urge. "Forgive yourself."

"Really, you come with platitudes," and he can't stop the laugh.

"You want her happiness," his little brother continued on and Michael raised an eyebrow at that. "I watch over you both, Michael. I have seen your struggle trying to reconcile what she is with what you want for her."

"So, that is what all your spying has taught you."

"You are as stubborn as she is."

"Watch yourself," he warned, voice low.

"You cannot make her happy if you do not let yourself be happy."

It would be comical seeing the rage in his younger brother's face over his inherent impotence expect it was the truth. He rolled his head back, so many things he tried not to think of at times, like his former ability to fly away from a confrontation such as this.

"Despite everything, you are a still my brother," Castiel continued when Michael refused to answer. "Think about it."

He was alone, watching the wind move along the trees in this cold afternoon, leaves almost fallen to the earth in totality.

 

* * *

 

 

It had been close to the end of his work day when the call was put through. A much too serene sounding woman informing him that his wife had collapsed while reading at the hospital and had been taken to the ER. She had complained of seeing halos right before that, one of her migraines he supposed as she had been having more of them lately.

Without question he left work, cursing under his breath the heavy traffic and the snarl of cars that backed up rain slicked roads. The cab crawled, the meter clicking over even though they barely moved three feet as the driver attempted to start conversations to alleviate boredom. Or perhaps frustration. Not that it particularly mattered to him as he resolutely ignored the requests, kept his eyes on the traffic hoping it would clear and there would be a path to where he needed to be.

Over an hour and he was there, finding her pale and drugged in a small bed in a washed out room with a green hanging curtain blowing listless in the vent air. She looked smaller than she ever had a right too, blankets covering her to such an extent that she seemed even more lost in the bed, rails up, a line running into her arm. How long had she been here before they even thought to call him?

"Michel," she slurred out, face lax as he pulled over a chair.

"Hey love, is it better?"

"A bit."

He smoothed the hair out of her face, her eyes heavy and closing as they waited. There was something innate in humans that made ever second feel like an eternal breath when waiting. The squelch of the nurses as they walked by, rubber soles of their shoes protesting the high wax floor. Distant fuzzy pops of static from a radio announcing an incoming ambulance. There was a TV but she was dozing in and out and he rarely found something to entertain him.

Almost half crazed, wanting to dash out and grab one of the moving people who always went by but never stopped at them, he almost screamed when one finally did.

"Mr. Jones?" she asked, voice quiet with Lucifer not even stirring.

He nodded and she motioned with her hand to follow her. A protest was in him, that he couldn't go without telling her that he would be back soon but the nurse was already gone, her figure of purple with faded blue stripes making its way down a small maze of hallways. He scrambled to keep up with her, wanting to ask if she could have waited and her eyes looked as exhausted as his. She finally halted by a small waiting room labeled "Family" and pointed inside.

"One moment, the doctor will be here."

It was barely a minute before a tall woman with long black hair and rather friendly face appeared, her white coat swaying loosely as she pulled the door shut.

"Dr. Clarissa Bradly," she said, extending her hand. "You are Mr. Jones?"

"Yes, Michael, please," he replied, taking a seat as she did. "How is she?"

Some back portion of his mind already informed him that this was not be welcomed news. That they did not take members of the family away to give pronouncements.

"I was called into consult. I am an oncologist," she started when everything in him felt as if it had slammed to a halt. "I'm sorry, there are no good ways to put this. From the initial scans and testing when did when she was admitted it appears that she is suffering from cancer that has metastasized."

"How?" he got out. "Where did it start?"

"Now," and she seemed as if she was trying to offer some kind of hope that wasn't tangible. "We may be incorrect and will not know for certain until biopsy but what we know now is that she has tumors afflicting her brain, her liver and we believe starting in her spine."

After that point all he could do was nod as she talked about what was to come, what they would do if it was this or that and the next steps. All he could do was wonder how he had missed this. Had she been in that severe pain? There had been headaches, getting worse but they were supposed to be normal, something cared for with medication. Some days she seemed tired, missed things, had difficulty focusing but it hadn't seemed worse. Surely she had told her doctor.

How hadn't he known?

"l'll give you a few minutes," she was saying, standing and leaving after putting a hand on his shoulder.

All he could do was stare at the small table in the room piled with magazines, the kinds his female co-workers read that had pictures of immaculate houses, or well cooked meals. The ones with photos of beautiful gardens and he had hoped perhaps she could have that as she always liked the growing things.

"Castiel."

His little brother was there and he tried to find words but got some strange gurgling noise out of his throat instead. Fortunately, Castiel was not as naïve as he had been once. He nodded and flew immediately and Michael made himself stand, collect himself because it was all going to be fine.

He was not about to watch someone die that he had once craved to kill.

"I can't," the angel said, voice solemn and almost flat on return. Despite all instinct he slapped his brother, that flesh like stone under his palm. "I have tried, something is blocking me."

"No," Michael whispered, this sick game that Father or whoever was playing with them, dragged them out to be put in a completely different form of hell. "No, no."

The wind, feeling memories of it stirring as Castiel simply grabbed and flew them far from that room. Somewhere that was warm and fresh scented. Not that it mattered, he couldn't see in flight anymore.

Nails bit into his palms and he was overcome with the sheer desire to just destroy. Rip at himself, at the ground, at Castiel. Just tear and tear until that tearing sensation in him ceased to be. As though he could inflict enough pain to balance the scales, make it even so she would live.

She loved him again. After everything, all the twisted words that he had lived in to prevent the feeling of grief, the promises of revenge and black hate that had poisoned them both in the end. And now, now he was here and she loved him and she was still going to die and become nothing.

"Just strike me down, you bastard," he screamed at the sky aware Castiel had moved closer. "You know what happened to her, it is Your fault. You let her turn into that. You could have done anything else but You made me do what You couldn't, You set it up so I would have to kill her."

"Michael."

"Come and face me, you son of a bitch."

They stood, nothing outside of nature moving around them, grass telling its secrets as the wind brushed across it, a rare bird singing an apology in the trees. Nothing. There was nothing and Castiel put a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't," he said sliding to his knees, the earth wet and soaking into his slacks. "Don't."

 

* * *

 

 

"You don't like the bald look, Michael?" she teased, and he ran his hand over her shiny head, letting his fingers trace over the healing scar that decorated her skull. "I rather think it adds a personal flare. Like a crash test dummy."

He smirked at her. "You'd look stunning no matter what."

"Sweet talker," she hummed, her face still worryingly pale as she leaned back against the pillows. All of her was a map of pain. Surgeries, recovery and the incoming round of chemotherapy looming. She had suffered millennia in hell only to half to suffer it again on earth not understanding why. "I hate when you're all pensive."

"Sorry, love," he said, watching her eyes drift closed.

Carefully, he moved the tray and books off the bed and laid beside her, pressing his face into her lap. A hand in his hair as they sat quietly while winter raged on outside without them.

 

* * *

 

 

She was sick again, there was so little to be done. They tried to make her comfortable as the treatment ran its course but some of the effects still snuck their way through. Flushing and the sound of her rinsing out her mouth as he rose to meet her at the door.

"At least I don't have hair to vomit into," she said and he kissed her head, today wrapped with what had to be the brightest, most orange scarf in existence. A gift from one of the children she had sat with months ago who had come to sit with her.

This, this was Lucifer still made his mind reel as he helped her into bed. He could see their little brothers bringing her a gift with those intentions so long ago, how she would always probably show it off and praise them.

 _We can stop,_ he wanted to say, _we don't have to torture you again._

She looked immensely stubborn even now and he knew that even suggesting such a thing would be met with an argument.

"You can have another of those pills," he offered instead and got a slight nod with a grimace. He slipped one under her tongue, watching to see if just that alone would cause issues.

"At least their tasteless, goes well with mint."

He laughed, kissed the corner of her mouth. "We can catch the tail end or your show. Maybe see if you want to eat after that."

 

* * *

 

 

Michael knew she was dying.

He understood that she was dying even if that concept was as foreign to him as this life was. She was flickering, fading and all those long terrible countless seconds he had plotted and planned to drive his blade through her rushed away like vapor. This life would be gone and so would they, not one of Father's chosen who could dwell in happiness and peace and be oblivious to all the pain that had torn and cut into them during life. No they would be gone, she would disappear first without even a turn from heaven outside of little Castiel, stalwart solider who kept on.

Michael some days wanted to ask what it had felt like to die as if to ensure there truly was nothing and not an endless loop of all failures.

She was asleep, curled up on the couch as far as she had made it today. Her eyes were a dim blue, something hazy in them when they turned to him but they always had light. They were closed now, her face not as tinged grey with nearing death as it had been. Little changes in her, the way she moved and he knew instantly that she hurt more, would need something sooner even if she never talked about it.

It was strange that Lucifer did not guilt him of the pain she carried.

"I am so sorry, little brother," he whispered to her hand that was near his head. He sat on the floor against the couch where she slept, escaping the facts of this moment. The carpet was coarse and the pillows smelled of dust and her as he pushed his face into them.

He could not hate her when all she did was love him, perhaps (and he clung to this stubbornly, hopeful, as the fool he was) this was the true core of Lucifer left after all the rage and hate and corruption had been stripped off her grace. Perhaps, she really had loved him all this time.

She did not stir as he wept, that strange human sense of grief and helplessness becoming physical and he hated it, listening to her even breaths.

 

* * *

 

 

"You don't have to always be here!"

She was so angry and he didn't understand why. Lately, getting out of bed had been a chore in and of itself and she was sliding away so fast. There was no need of doctors to say that they had bought more time but the extent of it - Oh Father, it was everywhere.

Now she stood, quivering, fists curled up as she leaned against the wall, her paleness putting it's vibrant white hue to shame.

"I want to be here," he said not knowing if it was right. Seeing her get more tense told him that no, it was not.

"I am not some broken doll, Michael. I can do things for myself. We can have a nurse. I can go to a hospice."

"Would you stop?" he hissed, letting his feet click on the floor to tell her where he was at. "Why do you think I want to give you away?"

"You have before. I know it. You've sent me away before."

"Oh, love," he whispered, the anger fleeing from him. "Not again, I promise. Never again."

She shook her head, her palm on the wall as she walked away from him, hand in front of her but he knew she was counting steps. Everything remained static here, to make sure she didn't trip because Father knew she was too stubborn to let anyone help her.

"Stop being a child," he demanded as she almost tripped over the edge of the carpet which she should have known was there.

"You hate me."

"I don't -" he stopped, some days it was hard to tell if this was her or all of her and he never knew. "I did once, it was easier that way. To hate you."

"Leave."

"No."

"Let me be! I can just die all nice and convenient and out of your way so you can get back to doing whatever it was you were doing that I can't remember."

Out of frustration he called her in their tongue, not realizing it until she stopped, her head drooping. A sense of defeat rolled through her that was palatable from where he stood.

"You won't tell me, won't tell me what that language is -" she cut herself off. "Just go away."

He did no such thing, taking her hand that was searching for the table to make sure she didn't hit it. "You make it hard to love you."

"Shut up, Michael."

"Always so bull headed," he told her, pulling her closer to him. "You're stuck with me. Better get used to it, because I'm not leaving."

 

* * *

 

 

"The tree you like is blooming," he told her, watching her sightless eyes turn towards the window from habit. "Little blossoms, the first on the block."

Her breathing was more forced now, he knew the pain was not controlled through all the medications and the only thing he could do was describe things to her, read to her, sit with her. The nurse he hired came in at night and he still found himself sleeping in uncomfortable positions beside her.

"We watched the first one bloom together, do you remember Mikh'ael"

Her voice was light despite her agony and everything stopped inside of him.

"Lucifer?"

Something like a smile, a brief flash as she swallowed. "I remember now."

He moved to the edge of the bed, letting himself fall forward so that his head was buried against her neck.

"I would- would have thought you gone," she got out, hands too thin on him. "Now I'm not just Luci."

"No."

"I still hate you."

"I know." He raised his head, kissing her chin that had grown sharp, her chapped lips. Face washed of color and he knew it was coming. More equipment to monitor her, to keep her from just starving to death. "How bad is it?"

"Looking to smoother me?"

"Yes, of course. I want to return to my many mistresses I keep on the side," he said dryly and appreciated her soft laugh. "If it's too terrible, Castiel can come."

"He's alive? Always the go getter that one." Michael smiled. "Not so much a healer."

"He cannot. Apparently, you and I are unhealable."

"Figures. I blame you."

"You always do," he said, getting a wet cloth to wipe her face with. As he leaned over to get her water she felt him suddenly grab him. Her flesh was so cold but it was not from what she was now, only what was consuming her until she ceased to be alive.

"Michael."

"Still here, love."

"Why?"

He ducked his head down, mouth right next to her ear as she stilled. "I hate you, too," he whispered. "All of you, every part of you."

"Sentimental fool," she got out as he slide a hand under her head, kissing her skin.

"I won't leave you alone in the dark again."

These bodies, they showed too much and his voice was cracked and worn, as her hands were on him, pulling him closer even in their weakened state.

He could not refuse.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

 

The world turned a blind eye to the devil being buried on a rainy Tuesday afternoon.

There had been so many people there and he marveled at what they would say if he proved to them that she had been Lucifer, bringer of corruption and sin, executioner of humanity. If not maybe one of them would ask why she had been so bright and happy if that was all she was.

Or what she would say to having so many humans at her funeral.

Crowds, people, condolences, none of it was something he tolerated very well. He did not have her graceful mannerisms, her charming tongue and he bowed out, slipping back home. They had talked about her soul in heaven and he had been close to truly losing his temper. To tell them she would never get to see their home again, that she was dust, less than that. All that was left of his other half was below the surface now, nothing else remained.

The silence was maddening in their apartment and he kept waiting to see her. Things still smelled like her. He considered moving and then dismissed the idea of it instantly. This was where they had been the closest for the first time in eons and he could endure it just to have those last little threads.

There was still whiskey and he was still here and as he slouched at the dining table he marveled at that little fact. He was still present with a beating heart he now needed and everything, every damn square inch of his life was her and still was. Even when she had chosen everything over him and he made himself hate because it was the only way to walk towards what he was commanded it had always been her.

A sound, that slight air movement and he wanted to reprimand his brother for announcing himself so terribly. Stealth, they had it. There was no reason to announce anything but the perpetual frown his brother always wore stopped him.

“Michael.”

“What?” and he should be horrified that his words were so slurred as he measured the liquid the bottle still held. Not much.

“I came to see how you were fairing.”

“Wonderfully,” he waved the bottle, the few ounces that remained sloshing, leaving thin fingers on the glass sides. “I have never had a better day than this one, though falling to hell definitely ranks up there.”

“I know you are grieving, let me –“

“Grieving? For who? The sadistic creature that would torture and disembowel anything that stood in her way? The one that was blind and pissing herself and her last coherent moment was telling me she knew who she was before she was confused and terrified of shadows? And even that death, as long and draw out as it was still was not a fraction of what she should have suffered for what she had done?”

Castiel did not move and it was infuriating. If he did not value his drink over satisfaction he would break the bottle over his brother’s head to see if he could at least get a blink. That tie was never fixed and he briefly wondered if Dean simply had tried and it was Castiel who kept it like that. Forever crooked which was strangely fitting.

“Michael,” and then there were fingers coming towards him and he batted them away, finally getting some form of reaction, that head leaning just a minuscule amount to the side. “I wish to help you. You are in need of rest.”

“You do not do that.”

“But –“

“No, I am still the eldest and you do not do that.”

Something like a small tug at his little brother’s mouth and he realized it was a smile as Castiel made himself comfortable in one of the other chairs, as though he lived here.

“You don’t have to sit with me.”

“I know.”

It was quiet, the battery in that annoying clock had died three weeks ago and he had yet to replace it, not wanting to listen to its mindless counting of the seconds. After the clicks and beeps and her breathing it was so utterly quiet and he almost could not take it. A part of him wanted to turn everything on, get as much noise to drown out something that had no true name and was coming next for him.

He had never liked silence. The clatter of heaven stripped from him when he fell to hell almost drove him insane alone.

“Would you speak?”

“How do you find being human?” his brother asked, finally raising his eyes off his lap where he had been staring dutifully at his hands. “I disliked urinating when I was human.”

“You were human? Not just fallen?”

“For a time.” Michael leaned forward, some faint little trace of a smile on Castiel’s face. “I did enjoy their sex, though I would have preferred her not stabbing me the following morning.”

“You need better friends,” Michael told him and the angel just shrugged, something so slight that he had acquired probably from his time on earth. “How did you met someone that wanted to stab you?”

“She gave me a sandwich.”

“And then you had sex, after the sandwich?” Even with his limited exposure before this he knew that was off. Humans did not simply lure each other with simple food stuffs one could make for a dollar, especially with strangers. “How are you still alive?”

“I do not know, but it keeps happening.”

There was something so mournful there and he laughed. He couldn’t help it. None of them could escape in the end it seemed. A small fear in him that Lucifer was back in hell, that that was where they would travel to once this life ended.

He leaned back, table cold under his palms, bottle essentially empty and he wanted more and none at all. Castiel sat there, always grave, always watching.

“She was a monster,” he said, voice low but he could see in those eyes staring back that there was understanding in what he meant.

It was Castiel who helped him to the couch, offered to try take away some of the effects but he couldn’t. He wanted to grasp onto the veil of not knowing for as long as possible. That comfortable numb buzz before he had to face their bed without her. To find a way to sleep alone, eat alone, breath alone.

Castiel was crouched next to him, making sure he wouldn’t roll off and somehow injury himself, and he had so many questions as to why this little brother would be here. Something distant saying perhaps he too couldn’t remember everything.

He couldn’t find the words to say he loved her.

“You will always be my brother,” Castiel said before rising, going to sit in the matching chair that Lucifer had picked out. Bright pastels to go with the white room and he remembered how she had once been draped over him instead of this blanket. Warm and alive and capable in their brief time together of love.

It was fortunate he was so drunk that he did not have the energy to tear into them, rip them until the fabric was reduced to tatters.

“I wanted to hate you, despise you,” his brother continued, staring off into a distant corner. “Until I attempted to manage our brothers and realized more of why you did what you did. Why you were tired. And it was the humans that taught me how one could love and hate so fully all at once. It was they that taught me forgiveness.”

He curled up more, pulling the blanket wishing the room would be gone and he with it after he fell asleep. Everything smelled of her, kept being of her and he wanted away. It was a cruel moment, brought on by drink before he remembered that something once so easy for him was no longer his.

“I miss my wings,” he whispered to the couch cushions. “Something I was created with before everything should not be so easily taken.”

A rustling and he knew Castiel was seated beside the couch now, that strange heat of his brother was close and memories threatened him a bit more.

“There are good things here, Michael. I do not know if they are enough to overcome this for you, but they exist.”

 _Let me go, Father. Protect them and let me go_ , he prayed as he drifted off, dizzy and numb.

 

* * *

 

  
A knocking at the door and he contemplated just not answering it. Hoping that perhaps it was a concerned neighbor he could turn away quickly he got himself up but was not expecting who the door opened to.

“Sam?”

“Hey,” the boy said, looking sheepish and was staring at him in a way that made him vaguely uncomfortable. “Cas warned me what you looked like, I just, wasn’t. Man, it’s like looking in a time machine.”

“I apologize. I have no control over this,” Michael answered wondering just what Castiel was up to. “Why are you here, Sam?”

“I – I had a dream. I mean I still get those but last time it was Lucifer doing it and that ended badly so I was worried that would happen. But it was about him, or rather her dying and I didn’t know if it was true so I finally asked Cas and he told me about you since I couldn’t tell Dean,” Sam stopped in his frantic rambling to wave a hand. Michael did indeed know the older brother’s stance on that one. “Not that it helps you looking like dad. I mean it’s not your fault. But I had to know because it’s weird and there’s things –“

He cut himself off, face trying to be blank but the pulse of confusion and anxiety was strong. Sam was still huge, in need of a haircut as it touched his shoulders and still dressed in flannel. If Zachariah hadn’t gotten himself killed out of stupidity, Michael knew he would be amused. Flannel clad apes, he used to call them.

“I mean, it’s not like you and I are friends or even like each other and Dean would shoot me if he knew I was over here instead of doing what I said I would be doing. Because that means he’s gonna have to talk to more people and he probably, maybe, still wants to stab you and –“ Sam broke off, staring at him. “Adam.”

“In heaven. I let him free before I returned to Stull.”

There was an enthusiastic nod at that, the boy rocking on his feet still like he was actually plotting the best course to flee down the apartment hall.

Michael sorely wanted to point out that it was the child who had come to his door but kept it in, watching as Sam absently thumbed a bit of flaking paint of the door jamb as if he were alone.

“Alright, Sam,” Michael said, trying to be gentle with patience long ago shredded. “Why are you here?”

“I hated all the things he did. What he did to me and my family and –“ the boy rocked on his heels, jamming his hands into his pockets. “It’s just – I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry.”

“Would you like to come in? I can make coffee.”

A nod, and Michael knew what the boy was trying to say as he opened the door wider, letting his brother’s former vessel in.

 

* * *

 

  
He hated all the stares when he returned to work. Those whispers that he knew were pity, the low voices of how his wife had passed so young and he wanted to turn and yell at them to stop. That they didn’t know, had no right to talk.

But he just smiled and nodded when someone gave him condolences. Tried to get himself lost in the mundane that had so little point to him now. Before, when he had Lucifer to care for, it was a necessity but just for himself it was pointlessness. Repetition and no meaning and he found his mind wandering.

It was becoming harder to not snap at people, to not shake them and tell them to stop looking at him that way. To not just inform them how little everything was in the grand scheme and that an archangel had just died, and not the first one. All those prayers to dead angels and he made himself take an early lunch.

Sam had called him since his visit, the one amongst them that knew what had happened but as he stared at his number in the phone he hesitated to call the boy. There were enough problems, he did not need to see the wear on his face to know he had suffered at his brother’s hands.

Yet, there was no one else.

“Hey.”

“I did not know if this was a good time.”

“Actually, good. Dean’s out on a milk run. Though if I suddenly rush you off the phone it’s because he came back.”

Michael smiled a bit at that. As much as Sam should not keep secrets he did not think his vessel would approve of Sam’s company choices.

“So, what’s up?”

“How do you make people stop apologizing?” He paused, and considered perhaps he should be more clear in the question. “They keep telling me how sorry they are, that was she was bright and boundless and in heaven and I am tired of it.”

“There really isn’t,” and he could hear amusement now. “Well at least you try Dean’s way of ‘I’m fine, now leave me the hell alone’ but I think you have to work with them so…”

A woman with two large dogs was strolling past on the path nearby to where he sat, air still cool at this time of year. Once he would have been able to hear the growing things rustling as they moved unseen by humans, the uninterrupted lives of deep insects and creatures that may never crawl up and know that there was such a thing as light.

“I kind of think you didn’t call to discuss human peculiarities, though.”

Something soft in that voice and Michael found himself crushing his sandwich in his free hand, forcing himself to stop. Everything still had sound here, a rustle of life and here he was talking to his brother’s former vessel.

Lucifer no doubt would find this hilarious. Or she would have been upset over his attention to Sam. More than likely a mixture of both.

There was no good way to feel and all he felt was pent up rage at the immense unfairness of it all. Even if Father hadn’t promised fair. Lucifer hadn’t even lived to see spring come back fully, her favorite time so he watched for her, trying to push back the unbearable sorrow that she simply did not exist anymore.

“I am sorry, Sam. I should not have bothered you.”

“Look, hang on,” it was tentative as though he still had world destroying powers but he waited, sensing that Sam was checking if he had hung up. “At one point I watched Dean turn into something that wasn’t him but still was. And it didn’t matter because he was always my family. That just made it a million times harder and I wish I could tell you something better than don’t do anything stupid right now because I’m not sure it’s going to get better for what you lost.

“That doesn’t mean I like what you did before or that you just let shit happen to us but you know now and I wouldn’t wish that on you. And after kind of getting how you came to do those terrible things I get it a bit more.”

“You do?” That strange sensation again, that perhaps there was missing time from him too washed over him as he watched a young mother beg her screaming child to desist. That loud, ringing wail and it clattered against his nerves yet made him remember trying to get his brothers not to bicker.

“Yeah, um, long complicated story that we’ll save for another time,” and Michael assumed this meant never as he became more convinced that there were things wiped from him.

“Is that the one where apparently my brother was sending you visions that you followed?”

“That part doesn’t matter,” Sam snapped back and then there was a deep breath. Whatever that had been had to be an interesting story that he would ask Castiel about. “What does matter is that some of it you have to let go or it’s gonna consume you. We both know that and it goes badly. She didn’t –“

The child cut himself off and Michael simply put his lunch away finding he was he neither hungry or wanting it.

“Sam.”

“She didn’t deserve what you gave her, after what she’s done,” the boy finally said, voice quiet. “That doesn’t mean it wasn’t right or that you aren’t hurting. And I can’t fix that outside of giving you someone to talk to that knew her and knew she just wasn’t hateful pride. Well, outside of Cas and he’s not real pro-talking. At least not with us.”

“No, he’s not. I can see why humans dislike the silent staring now.”

“Yeah. And he’s so earnest to. Makes him endearing and evil all that the same time.” Michael smiled a bit at that, knowing Castiel would be more confused than hurt over that. “Crap, Dean’s pulling in. I got to go for now.”

“Thank you, Sam.”

He let the call drop, feeling strangely comforted by the boy’s ramblings, as he stared out at the moving people. It did not change, however that iciness in his chest, that he was soon to be next and he both hated and loved her for going first.

 

* * *

 

  
He had been at work when he felt it, that crushing vice and he fell to his knees, people running to him. Things had been muted, only pain and a collection of blurry images of lights, and sirens and people running and yelling.

Now he laid in his very own hospital bed except he had no one to sit beside him. So many wires keeping track of his life and he wanted to tell them not to bother. Most everything had been lost already.

A kind nurse had brought him his belongings bag and he had fished out his cell. His first instinct was to call Castiel through prayer but he did not want to see the mournful look on his little brother’s face. Small fragments of his first hours here with people everywhere and he was certain he had seen Castiel in the corner, watching. That he could be so sick without his knowing, well, he would not be that lucky.

Not that the second option wouldn’t look mournful and both would be upset if he simply refused contact.

“Hey,” came the whispered response, low and he knew Dean had to be close. “I can’t talk, unless it’s important.”

Michael hesitated, wanting to say it wasn’t but then knowing he would only be lying again he let out a grudging, “It is.”

“One sec.” Sounds of movement, a door closing he thought and Sam’s voice was barely louder. “What happened?”

“I wanted to thank you,” Michael cleared his throat. “Before I lost the chance.”

“It’s not – wait, what’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Michael eyed the machines near him. “One could say that.”

“Where are you?”

“Sam, you have a brother –“

“Who I will tell and listen to him yell at me on the way there. Where are you?” This time it was a demand and he wondered why the boy was so persistent on being here.

“Mercy. I had a heart issue.”

“Jesus, okay. We’re, hang on.” More sounds of movements and he could hear Dean now protesting something in the background. “Okay, we’re about – I’ll tell you in a minute, Dean – seven hours from you.”

“You don’t have to come.”

“We are.”

The last thing he heard was Dean demanding an explanation right now and Michael lowered his phone. He probably should have just had informed Castiel, though at the rate that angel was going Sam would have found out anyways.

 

* * *

 

  
He woke close to dawn to find both of them there, Dean fiddling with his chart, flipping through it while Sam, bless his heart, glared. A part of him wanted to make a remark about bothering sick people but he saw the concern on the younger Winchester’s face and cut it off.

“Jesus, broken heart syndrome,” Dean whined from the end of the bed. “Do we need to buy you a fainting couch next?”

“Shut up, Dean. Why don’t you do something useful, like what you’re good at. Finding food.”

That earned a stormy scowl from the older brother who put the chart back. “Sure, not getting any for Fluttershy there. They feed him.”

“Sorry,” Sam said as Dean stomped his way out. “He’s adjusting. And uh, himself.”

“You didn’t have to come.”

“Yeah, so you could sit here all alone. Or worse, have Cas stare at you silently.” Michael laughed at that, knowing Castiel was rarely good with conversation and it probably would be a silent, nerve wracking few hours before his little brother was called away.

“I did not mean to make things worse for you and your brother, Sam. That wasn’t my intention.”

“He’ll be fine. Shit he’s pulled over the years, my having a secret fallen archangel turned human friend in mourning isn’t really up there on the radar anymore.” A slight roll of the head, a soft smile. “Besides, it would bother me if we weren’t here after everything.”

Michael didn’t know what to say to that, and thankfully the boy turned his attention to the TV, flipping through the channels, commenting on a terrible infomercial. Until at last, his exhaustion overwhelmed him.

 

* * *

 

  
He was awoken by a nurse serving him dinner, and surprised to find it was Dean keeping vigil, feet propped up while popping something in his mouth.

“Evenin’ buttercup,” he said as she left. “Just so we’re clear, still don’t like you.”

“And I was starting to worry.”

He shifted, wires and worry and just too much and the food was so beyond him as the boy took him in.

“It’s hard to look at you. I know I can’t be pissed since you can’t help it but that doesn’t make it right. Not that you didn’t ride him, or Adam or try for me and who the fuck else in your little Daddy knows best plan.”

“I cannot change it. Even if I still had that power, some things cannot be altered.”

“Doesn’t mean I got to tolerate you past not stabbing you when Sam’s not looking.”

Michael fumbled with the edge of the blanket, wanting to be alone and not under eyes that looked at him as though he was the father who had left him. Why he looked like he did he didn’t know. Whatever had happened to grant him this body hadn’t asked his opinion and now both brothers despised him for it. Sam was more used to it, something less judgmental now as the child whispered his own shame and Michael understood.

Dean was still there and he looked at the running news, a report on a plague that hadn’t been identified yet but had not yet reoccurred since the first cluster of out-breaks last year. There was something familiar with the wounds of the victims but he didn’t want to ask. He didn’t want to be involved in running the universe and curiosity would definitely drag him back in.

“How much you know?”

Dean looked back at him from the TV and he knew the boy was involved in whatever was wreaking havoc upon the humans again. Something tightened in Dean’s face like he should, like he should bear witness to all the other travesties that he had no control over.

“Cas said he was healed to deal with,” a hand motion, something that escaped him as the news persistently droned on, an inane listing of sports and scores. “They fell. Or rather got dumped out of heaven because one of them didn’t like how the others played.”

Some strange declaration of how far his family had gone without him, of all the things he had been trying to keep from them as he stared at the food tray in front of him. By human standards it was passable but he couldn’t pick up the silverware.

“Dean, I – “ the words were gone when he saw that shake of the head. The boy got up and closed their room door, some slight grimace and Michael knew. Couldn’t have the locals hearing them talk crazy though Castiel’s human antics made more sense to him now.

“Sammy’s, I dunno, better since he started talking to you I guess. I think it helps.” Some faraway look in the boy’s eyes as he took a seat again, staring at the wall without even knowing he was doing what he was. “I just don’t – mom’s been –.”

“Mary Winchester is resurrected?”

A nod, something quiet like regret and Michael knew it all too well. Knew the pain that was all twisted up inside and grabbed that wrist, watching the face transition from stony to hopeful to rage filled.

He couldn’t find the words, but Dean seemed to understand, a nod as he released the boy. Some strange noise, like the child was holding in a cry as Dean composed himself, staring up at the corner of the room. “They don’t make it easy.”

“They don’t,” he allowed poking at his food that was rapidly cooling.

“I still can’t say that I’m sad Satan’s dead. And wow, never thought I’d be saying that.”

“I wouldn’t expect you too.”

Another glance and he knew. That love of something that everyone else hated and he stared out the window for a moment, tree tops and the dim glow of streetlights coming on. A city that was preparing for sleep.

He tried to eat, the motion strangely foreign now as though he hadn’t spent so long with these demands. Thoughts kept haunting him, surfacing and refusing to submerge themselves.

“What do you want to watch, oh fainting Willow?” Dean finally asked him, remote in hand. “This news shit is always boring.”

A few channels and some words about how he should eat or the boy would eat it for him and they were on a show about a hospital. Why he would want to watch about a place he was in with even more neurotic people he didn’t understand but Dean explained as they watched. Some old episodes, back to back and his body was still tired from almost dying, of hanging on when he wanted to slip away.

 

* * *

 

  
Everything wore on him, he was always exhausted as though he couldn’t quite wake up. They told him he would be tired, that it would pass. Soon he would start to feel much more normal and he wanted to laugh and say nothing had been normal for a long time.

Castiel was there and he couldn’t stand his tie, his rumpled look anymore. His little brother did not complain as he got him to take off his trench coat, buttoned his suit jacket and made sure his tie was correct. He smelled like earth and burning electricity and it made Michael ache for home.

“We are lucky that this lawyer makes house calls,” he told his brother who just stared at him. He could have Castiel fly him to an office but the very thought of leaving the apartment made everything feel like cardboard infused with water, something once sturdy but bowing under the stress.

“I can take care of this for you, Michael.”

“I’d rather do it their way. Let them have closure that is natural.”

A head tilt, some form of understanding and he sat on the edge of the desk chair, trying to not want to curl up and sleep for several decades. He had little, whatever the things he had were worth. He had gotten insurance for the funeral and dear Father where those expensive. He had had to make arrangements for Lucifer before she passed, put paperwork in order as if they existed here. For some reason he had not done the same for himself and he should have.

“Michael?”

“Hmm,” he looked up and realized at least ten minutes had passed, the man was late and he had been staring at the empty surface of the desk, worn with small grooves. They had found it at a flea market, something old and dark and heavy. It had iron on its legs in lace designs and drawers that still worked. For some reason Lucifer had loved it and they had gotten it home, and it fit beautifully in the second bedroom.

He had found all her drawings in the drawers, images of things she had seen, her own dreams and there had been a house with sprawling gardens and he knew that was how she saw them.

Castiel was focused on his favorite distant corner, not looking at him and he knew whatever he could not remember, if that was what happened to him too, had been terrible. Something that perhaps had torn apart everything he was but still, it bothered him. The news, those black marks, all of it had slipped in and he finally had to ask.

“What don’t I remember, little brother? I am sure now without her there is something.”

“What do you remember?”

It was so final and he knew already the worst had happened. Far beyond his little ones having their wings burned off.

“Death came for Sam, most likely due to his brother. Then it was just I and Lucifer since I had released Adam when you decided to light me on fire.”

A grunt, some little twist as though Michael would extract revenge for that. Perhaps on that day he would have but clever little angel, he had won and died for it. If Father saw fit to resurrect him after that then he would not raise a hand to him.

“You do not remember the damage to The Cage? That Lucifer left?”

Morning Star had escaped? Michael frowned, tracing a grove with his thumb in the desk surface. No, that could not be right.

“There is no escape. Little could damage that place.”

“Amara.”

_I know what it is like to be locked in the dark and forgotten, little angel. Now, you know it too, the price of what you did to me._

Her voice, everywhere and nowhere and Castiel was just beside him when there were little fragments. All that pain, Lucifer gloating over him as he was torn apart because he had stopped even getting up.

“Michael, you are unwell. We should –“

“Tell me, little brother. Tell me now how we are even here if she is out.”

“Dean bore the Mark –“

“Of course he did,” and his words were clipped, a fist curled against his leg. “Stupid little humans. And none of you knew. None of you thought perhaps it went beyond what you should tamper with. Even with the knowledge Lucifer bore it first.”

Castiel glanced away, unable to meet his eyes and Michael got his answer.

“So they freed her somehow. I would not put it past them. Tell me, why is the world still here? Did Father come?”

Those last words, he did not mean for them to be so eager, so wanting.

“Eventually. He came eventually.”

“Castiel,” he said, not likely how guarded the angel was.

“He wouldn’t even come when she tortured him, us –“

“You said yes?” Michael breathed out at that slight head nod and he just closed his eyes. “Why would you help me after that?”

“It was not your fault, what he did. And all he was –“ Castiel squinted, searching for the word as they waited for a lawyer who seemed to not be coming. “I thought all he would be was insane rage, but in the end it was sorrow. I have never felt anything as painful then the depth of that.”

“Oh,” was all he got out and Castiel laid a hand on his shoulder. “I am sorry, little Castiel. I failed you.”

“Amara and Father were able to reconcile with the help of the Winchesters and their strange allies but Lucifer was still out, injured and without a vessel.”

That could not have ended well and he saw his brother’s tight face which told him all he needed to know.

“One night, Dean was drunk and frustrated, terrified that Lucifer would come for either Sam or myself. He screamed up at the sky that Father needed to clean up his mess. That both of you were forgotten and He needed to fix it. Then I felt my wings return and there you were, on that street and I realized they had done something. You did not seem to remember that Amara was free. I do not know what happened to you in hell.”

Michael leaned forward, eyes so heavy and damp and he knew. Oh, he knew what was kept from him and he hated her. Hated what she was, what she had torn herself into that she could do that to him and most likely still call it love.

“I am surprised Father would answer such a thing,” Michael said instead, busying himself with straightening Castiel’s tie that has somehow become crooked yet again.

“He once apparently told Father to shut up while singing.”

A knock and Castiel rose to get the door, lead the lawyer in and he composed himself. Made himself not say he had cared for his torturer, that he loved completely who hurt him the most.

 

* * *

 

  
“Michael.”

He just shook his head at the forever stoic face and sank into the corner. His brother was there but made no move towards him to do anything that would invoke heaven or powers or anything he could not.

“You must take care of yourself. You are –“

“Mortal?” Michael can’t help but laugh, leaning his head back and staring at those eyes that still held eternity after what they had seen, done. “Brother, since I became mortal I was always dying, the hour was only unknown.”

Castiel was beside him and he lolled his head back, letting it rest so he could see the ceiling.

“It is not that you are not enough,” he said quietly, not knowing how to get that look to go away that stared at him. “I have just –“

He didn’t know the word and Castiel leaned against him, something still and knowing and his brother did know. Could see him despite him seeing so little that was not in front of him. The bottle was still with him and Father these nights grew longer the more time draped her skirts over everything.

“I understand.”

Perhaps he did, even if he could not rectify anything, could not heal and Michael let it wash over him with the next amber mouthful. Tomorrow was work, he had to be functional simply so he would not see their glares, the veiled lectures of how he must not stop. Dear Father Above, he had not stopped since before time began. It was time to find something and if Death came to collect him, it would not be so bad. His heart was gone, he had been about to kill it long ago and now, she was just gone. It seemed right that he follow in her path.

Castiel just stayed, quiet and somehow not judging and it pained him more to know what his brother had seen. Of what he had been allowed to do.

 

* * *

 

  
The shrill sound continued unabated and he hit his hand on the offending object before he realized he had it wrong. Everything hurt, that deep ache that was unfamiliar yet so partial to this life and he squinted, dragging the glowing thing towards him.

“Important,” he muttered into it as it was still dark and as far as he could tell it was not yet time to rise.

“What, are you hungover?”

“Dean, I am not in the mood.”

“Hair of the dog.”

“I will never understand your idioms.”

There was a sigh, something like frustration as if he had been through this before and then, “Go drink a little bit, will wipe it out.”

Fortunately, he did not have to go far to collect something and he rubbed at his head, skin feeling warm and three sizes too small. It was still mostly dark outside and he hoped Dean had a good reason for calling him before dawn. It was not like the boy did not understand time differences, only that he did not care.

“Why are you bothering me, Dean?” he asked, after checking his phone to see if it was still connected as the minutes had ticked by. Some part of the bed was still cool and he laid his face against the sheet there, relishing in how non-warm it was.

“Do you know what's up with Cas?”

“I rarely do. I am not his keeper anymore. You might want to take it up with the current Viceroy or Father. I hear you pray now.”

A harsh sound, something bitter like a laugh gone wrong. “Someone had to do it. And it wasn’t like I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. We have our own shit to deal with. Don’t need your angel business too.”

“Point taken,” Michael said, trying not to close his eyes to doze back off. He was certain there was another hour left until he had to get up. “No more angry prayers, Dean. Now, what is wrong with Castiel?”

It was starting to work, the several mouthfuls he had taken in were being absorbed by his stomach, a process he could narrate if he so desired. The uncomfortable sensation of not fitting in his own body was lifting and he fought off the urge even harder to drift off.

“He’s, I dunno, like happy and sad all at once. I think,” another pause, something like a throat clearing before Dean’s voice dropped lower. “I think he’s smiling a lot more. It’s terrifying.”

“Ah.”

“Ah? That’s all I get is an ah? No deep words of wisdom or maybe a limerick?”

“He and I talked.”

Silence once again and Michael pressed his face into the sheets. He had found if he washed them enough times they ceased to smell of her which made it tolerable to lay here. As long as he did not use her pillows it was as he had always been alone in this bed. Fingers curled up against a lose edge of one, he willed himself to not go back and drink what was left in the bottle.

“About?” finally came, Dean suspicious as though he had the power to brainwash Castiel anymore.

“Everything. I know what he has done, what stupid schemes he has been apart of since my fall. He is remorseful, so I offered forgiveness.”

“Everything?”

Something about that word was slow and drawn out, as if Dean was sure Castiel would keep things away from now when the worse was already out.

“Purgatory, Leviathans, his role in the fall of heaven and the removal of the mark and everything else.”

“We couldn’t stop him, with Purgatory,” Dean said, voice so full of guilt and Michael pressed his face against the mattress now wanting to smoother himself to save his brain the unending self-loathing of the brothers.

“Not everything is your fault, no matter how much you believe it is. It was not your place to and you and Sam repaired it as best you could. The fault is on heaven and my brothers who could not be bothered to do what was right. Now, Dean,” he said, voice a bit muffled but there had been no complaints. “Please tell me you did not call me because of worry that Castiel is happy.”

“Well,” a clear of a throat, nervous and Michael smiled slightly because it was just humorous and depressing that the boy could be panicked over someone in his life having joy. “We may need some help with ancient Greek later. Didn’t know if you still, uh, knew all the languages.”

“I am still myself, Dean.”

“Well, sorry sparky, didn’t know if those language powers were you or angel mojo’ed fluency.” Michael smiled wider at how defensive the tone was. This was far more familiar ground between them. “Sorry, for trying to be considerate.”

“The sky will become green and pigs will be confused enough to fly to it the day you are considerate, Winchester.”

“Christ, sorry I asked.”

“Send me a picture. I’m going back to sleep.”

Without ceremony he hung up the phone, watching its light fade out. There was a strange sort of comfort that perhaps he had helped something, that perhaps Castiel could keep moving and in turn help the world keep flowing once he was gone.

Sleep did not return to him before the alarm sounded, but he rested in a state the closest he had known to peace for a long while.

 

* * *

 

  
Sam had sent him a text and he had to smile. It was of two pies and the complaint of not sending Dean out for dinner because it was either this or grease. Michael was surprised that he let Dean out alone at all, that boy was like a seething mass of violence and quiet danger under the friendly surface.

Books that he had ordered had arrived and he busied himself with the box, not missing Lucifer who had always greeted him. How she had always made it a point to be here when he arrived back, warm and bright and so unlike her yet like everything she had once been. He did not miss the smells of food, the clatter of things being moved or the sound of some program she was happily listening to as she cooked.

His hands shook as he looked over the books, uninterested in them now but he would read them. Otherwise he would sit here staring at the wall for hours unaware that he was even doing that.

He did not miss that she often had tea for him when he made his cup, listening for the lonely whistle and for some reason thinking of trains crossing dark prairies. It was these times he missed his wings the most, the ability to spread them out and be lost far away from here.

As he walked towards the dining room he did not miss her little touches, just as he did not miss her weight against him during sleep which he still disliked. To not know for a while what was around him and she had made it tolerable.

He did not miss those last few moments before her mind went from her when she was asking without words something he did not give her.

 _Oh Father_.

The sound of the cup shattering against the tile was distant as he collapsed. Things had hurt today, more so than usual, but it mattered so little to him and now it had come. Unlikely they had said. You’ll recover they had reassured when it had happened the first time.

The tile was cold, slick and hard under his cheek, hands curled and he couldn’t get up, the pain was overwhelming and he knew they spoke about those who did not lose the one given to them, made from them for them.

Castiel was there, saying something but he couldn’t make it out. The world was slipping away, he thought his little brother was on the phone before a hand on his face, eyes large and sharp and some strange sorrow that haunted them.

The air wouldn’t come, he was about to be nothing and it was beyond him to worry. A peace settled over him as he let go, the world stopping as his brother knelt beside him and he had no last words. 

 

* * *

 

  
She was in a yellow dress outside of their apartment in a yard they hadn’t had on earth, hands were covered in dirt as she meticulously dug holes and placed flowers. Everything had a sheen to it, some part of him, ancient and knowing, knew it wasn’t real. Where he was though, it didn’t matter if the colors swam because it was something he never thought possible.

 _Castiel, we are in heaven,_ he prayed, hoping perhaps his one loyal brother left would not let despair hurt himself or his humans.

“I’ve been waiting.”

Her voice was terse, not turning as her long hair shifted on her back. Another plant, her fingers carefully making sure it was in place and it occurred to him she was planting. There was no reason to do that here, all she had to do was point and have whatever she wanted. They knew the secrets that turned the individual heavens.

“I did not know you would be,” he said, voice slow and still, she didn’t turn.

Some part of him feared she would have those hazy unseeing eyes she had died with, not seeing what beauty she was causing around her.

“How did you die?”

“A broken heart.”

A snort, something uncouth and she glanced over her shoulder. He was relieved her eyes were bright even if they promised trouble.

“Really, Michael. You would have some romantic, terrible way. You couldn’t just fall off a mountain or trip over a curb or slip in the shower.” Her tone was fond though, satisfied. There was something in the way she held her shoulders, waiting for something and he knew what it was.

“You make it sound worse with each passing moment,” and he liked the soft sound she made before her body became rigid.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” he answered and she turned around, her delicate features lapsing into something ugly and old. The grass yielding as he came closer, her head back to see him, dirty hands against her knees. “You need to take your anger out on what you do hate.”

“I don’t –“

“Stop, just stop,” and she flinched just from his tone. As though he would began to beat her and he hated himself because he did once. Long ago he would have torn into her and her eyes dropped, taking in the flowers and the ground.

“You don’t remember what I did,” she finally said, actually unable to look at him. “You never would have treated me like that, stayed if you knew.”

“I have been told I have memory gaps.”

Her hands were fists now and it felt as though she would just implode, her yellow dress and pale flesh decorating the lawn and red blooms that seemed to be everywhere now. Crouching, he tried to touch her but she moved just enough to show it was unwelcomed.

This would not do.

An arm around her waist and he dragged her, stiff and clawing and he put his mouth to her ear, “I forgive you.”

A loud broken sound was out of her, something echoing with pain both her own and that which had been dealt at her hands and she pried at his arm, struggling. She was a desperate animal, cornered and unbelieving and he let her nails tear at his flesh, felt the scratches becoming deep.

“You don’t get to do that.” Her voice was a hiss, almost snake like and a tribute to her image on earth.

He wanted to tell her it was unbecoming.

“I’ve learned that I can’t hate you enough,” he whispered against her cheek and she shook her head. "It's just you, it’s always been you and you crushed my love and I still forgive you to be here now.”

Her skin was still dry at the base of her neck where he bit her, hard enough to draw blood and the slight metallic taste that wasn’t real. They were grace compressed to souls, so he thought, but it was her that wanted it like they were right now.

She was still now as he sucked at the wound, her body trembling and he tasted her neck, the curve of her chin and she turned her head, refusing him.

“We can be anything here, fly, watch the birth of the stars all over again. See the formation of the oceans and the creation of our brothers.”

He was still speaking to her cheek, her fingers working at his hands that clamped her in place.

“You can’t want this.”

“What I do need to know, Lucifer, since I am yours, is what you want.”

“I tortured you when you gave up. Lost your mind, everything,” she said, voice harsh as though that would drive him away. As though he expected anything less because she always tore him apart, over and over even when she didn’t mean to. As though she hadn’t murdered without a thought and left a trail of little brothers and Gabriel dead on a pagan floor.

“I made you broken enough to beg for it before I left you in hell without a second thought except to make sure you were trapped there.”

“Is that what you want, how you want me?”

She was silent, limp now and not fighting. There was no ache in his hands and he knew it could be healed here, that what they saw was only partial reality. He pressed his palm against her stomach, the soft fabric sliding under his fingers.

“Do you want that, Morning Star? Or how we were in heaven long ago? Tell me what you want because I will give it to you.”

Her fingers were picking at the grass now, mindless and strange for her. Older than a galaxy but she was fidgeting, her voice a strange mix of hope and sorrow. “You’ll laugh.”

“Tell me, Lucifer,” he said, voice a command as he grew tired of this shame and the games she liked to play.

“Earth. I want how we were on earth, we were happy and you –“ her voice cut off and she pulled at a few blades of grass. Her dress was pooled against it, a strange sun against the green, bright and misplaced. He pulled at the edges, felt her skin that it hid. Before she could even begin to think, she moved to give him more access, the want of her was there under the concealment of cotton.

“If this is how you like us, then to spend eternity between your legs is my heaven.”

“You were always so blunt,” she got out as he took his other hand and sank it into the tangles of her hair, pulling her head up. A snarl, something like a challenge as though he wouldn’t take her like this.

“The truth is often that way.”

“You can’t –“

“Hush,” he said kissing her and her nails were against his neck, a final fight as they sunk in, pulling and pushing him at the same time. Her teeth had pierced his lip as she dragged her head away, the smell of blood sharp, copper taste filling his mouth.

“Stay and be mine,” she said against his mouth, her body turned as she pushed against his hand. “Mine, always mine and no one else’s.”

He already knew her, surrendered to her because this was what she was. Father had allowed it and even with her crimes and blood and hate that were fueled by dark thoughts, she was beautiful.

“Forever.”

If that was how it was to be he would and he pressed his fingers against her, the small sounds and all of this was her creation. Her body, their apartment behind him, just like this and he believed her as much as he believed one day she would crush and twist him all over again when she became bored.

She was under him, a hand wave and there were no clothes remaining and she let him claim her, feel her, the true her, the tiny pieces that were left of them and her chill rushed through him.

“Beautiful,” he whispered and let go, knowing he was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Broken Heart Syndrome or Takotsubo cardiomyopathy is a real medical condition that is usually brought on by a great deal of stress and/or excitement that can either come from a positive or negative event (i.e. death of a loved one or winning the lottery). Patients that survive the event actually do really well and it is rare that a second occurrence of it happens. In Michael's case, seeing what he is and what he's lost it seemed more likely that he wouldn't find a true way to cope and that it would claim him. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
